


Shadows and Echoes

by Sovereign_Tea



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, McHanzo - Freeform, Multi, Skyrim AU, Slow Burn, tags will be added to
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-10 11:31:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13500896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sovereign_Tea/pseuds/Sovereign_Tea
Summary: Hanzo prides himself on being one of the best assassins in the Dark Brotherhood and always preforms his duties to Sithis and the Night Mother without question. He's known for getting difficult and high priority sacrament contracts and completing them with ease.Until he has a run in with a thief.This is a bunch of related stories regarding the meeting and fumbling of a Hanzo the assassin, and Jesse, a Nightingale of the Thieves Guild.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If there's one thing you should know about me, its that I've been playing Skyrim borderline religiously since 2011 (or maybe 2012). I'll admit, I haven't played any of TES games before Skyrim, but I LOVE the stories and lore surrounding the game. The world is very large, with so many possibilities for a player to do so many things--! The thought of a crossover between Overwatch and Skyrim has been in my head for a long time now, probably since 2016 shortly after Overwatch launched. I play a lot of Mer archers in Skyrim, specifically assassins or rogues, and I couldn't help but wonder what Hanzo would be like in TES universe. 
> 
> And then Mchanzo happened to me. 
> 
> And then, I saw this post on tumblr: http://ilatrash.tumblr.com/post/168363639842/commission-for-the-amazing-valpur-hanzo-and
> 
> It was very nice to see other people had a similar idea to combine OW and TES, so I've been working on this in my spare time. This will most likely be a series of connected stories regarding Hanzo and McCree, as well as other Overwatch characters. I don't know how long it will be, or what really will happen, but it will be a lot of questing, and a lot of banter between the two of them. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> You can also find me at: https://sovereign-tea.tumblr.com/ and https://twitter.com/Saltiest_Mercy

For the Night Mother, Hanzo Shimada would do anything. He had sworn allegiance to her after all, swearing that he would protect her and the brotherhood at all cost, and carry out the will of Sithis without a second thought. By no stretch of the imagination was this a unique pledge—every initiate swore the same blood oath in front of the Night Mother’s iron maiden-like coffin. But the dark haired bosmer seemed to take to this task with enthusiasm each time. He was not the Listener, nor would he want that dutiful burden—which a task evidently Sithis had chosen for his blood-brother Genji, who seemed to avoid many bouts with death as if by luck. But, the moment he saw that mop of lime green hair appear in his doorway in the middle of the night, eyes tired from being woken up by the whispers of the dead woman, he would always get up and lace up his leather armor without complaint. Sometimes Hanzo could go days or weeks without a contract, other times he would receive a raven from the sanctuary, a scroll bound to his its leg with Genji’s near unreadable scribble on it detailing his next client. Of course his fellow Brothers all seemed to have theories on why Hanzo threw himself into his work like he did. Some claimed he was a maniac of sorts, that if he had been left in civil society he would have been a mass murderer. Others speculated he was the reincarnation of Lucian Lachance, which was why the Night Mother favored him by sending contracts specifically for him.

Regardless, Hanzo never once complained aloud about any of the contracts given, and the majority of his hits—especially after having years of practice with his beloved bow—were clean and traceless. A mark could be tending their garden one minute, and without as much as hearing the whistle of an arrow, be dead the next moment. The elf could steal in and out of a town like a phantom, collecting the evidence of the slaying for the contract-maker without raising any alarm from the guards, or the citizens. The bodies of some of his targets were never found—buried underground, tied with rocks and submerged in water, stuffed into the gnarled roots of trees. Hanzo’s in-and-out silently reputation earned him the title Ghost from his brothers, many of whom could only marvel at his skills.

As such, Hanzo was oft given more high risk targets, not necessarily more important targets so to speak, or higher paid contracts, but people who lingered in higher populated areas—where a novice brother might find himself being spotted.

That was how The Ghost found himself slipping into Riften, an invisibility ring squeezed onto his pinky as he sat on the back of a horse drawn cart. The ring itself was a silver band with an enchanted ruby nestled between four prongs in the center, given to him by an associate that worked with the Dark Brotherhood, a girl who made it her life’s work to be the keeper of good intel. It was dangerous to go through front gates of cities—guards were always stationed there looking for trouble makers. But invisible he was able to get through the heavy wooden doors of the city gate without so much as glance.

Riften was a large city, aptly named for The Rift region in which it was located. Down in the southeast corner of Skyrim, it saw less traffic that other major cities, but it held its own with regards to population and wealth. Some of the greatest traders called the port city home, eager to sell their wares in the extensive market Riften boasted, as well as being able to set cargo ships out onto Lake Honrich and up the Treva River into the northern territories.

In his thirty some odd years of life, Hanzo had never once been to Riften. Most of his business kept him in the forests and plains west of Whiterun, spanning from Falkreath where the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary was located, all the way up north towards Solitude. The journey to the far east to claim his mark in Riften had taken a good number of days, most of which was spent shelling out coin to this farmer or that tradesman to allow him a seat in the back of the cart they were manning for as far eastward as they were traveling. The archer had seen a great many sights on his journey, including the ruins of Helgen, the quaint town of Riverwood situated by the water, the high walls of Whiterun, and even Ivarstead. He had met many a bard along the way who serenaded him by the camp fire, as well as bandits who thought (wrongly) that he would be an easy target. But _finally_ he had arrived at his destination, cloaked by his ring and the cover of darkness.

As the cart rolled towards the marked, Hanzo gracefully slid of the back, landing on his feet, the only sign of him the smallest puff of dirt where his feet hit the ground. Still invisible, he stole off towards a row of one level homes all packed tight together. The homes in this metropolis all seemed packed near the front gates, while the dirt path that the cart had been on slowly became wooden planks and stone the further back into Riften towards the market that a visitor would go. A waterway cut off the residential section from business, the waterway more of a transport canal around Riften that eventually led out to a port that was packed with small ships.

Hanzo’s target was a new merchant who had blown into town only a half a year before. The mark was a khajiit, still rather young—only about twenty seven—who had traveled as part of a caravan based out of Elsweyr and into Skyrim. While they traveled the nord dominated province, this khajiit who went by the name Drori—by the accounts of the man who performed the dark sacrament—had sold a good bit of skooma to people they encountered. This was not a rare occurrence in the least, and if one should ask any non khajiit most would say it’s an almost expected thing; there was a large connection between the selling of moon sugar and skooma and the traveling khajiit peoples. But Drori, who had an understanding of basic alchemy and potions, concocted a brew to combine in the making of the liquid skooma that boosted the effects of the drug, and also increased its addictive properties. People were buying his special skooma, believing it to be the typical brand one could buy from many caravans, only to find themselves desperately craving more. The nord who created the contract with Hanzo had lost his son to Drori’s skooma—driven mad by his inability to obtain the substance once Drori’s caravan had moved on from their small town, and lacking any funds to give the khajiit chase. Drori had since left his caravan and had set up a small shop of legal wares in Riften to serve as a front for his illegal selling of his special brew. Hanzo’s job was to go in and kill Drori, simple as that. His contractor had not set up any parameters for his stealth, nor the way to kill him, leaving Hanzo to his own devices.

The ring remained on Hanzo’s finger, allowing him to easily navigate through the rows of houses, out to a small bridge leading over the canal way. Looking down he could see the water far below, small little docks jutting out from the waterway walls, many with row boats tied to them, and people unloading crates. Along the walls there were doors which lead back underground, many of them looking to be different shops. His mark however was set up, as luck would have it, in the busy town square with his own wooden stall. Pressing on, he tracked behind a busy inn that sounded like it was close to bursting with the amount of people passing in and out with mugs of mead. As he snuck unseen by one of the windows, he could hear the strum of a guitar inside and the soft singing of a woman amongst the cacophony of drunken jubilee. It had been many moons since the archer had been able to relax enough to stop in at a tavern to enjoy a drink. If there was one thing the people of Skyrim could do well, it was make a good drink, typically strong yet sweet. As long as he kept a lower profile and made no comment against Talos, and did not weigh in on the Ulfric Stormcloak debate, he was typically left to his own devices despite being a mer.

Continuing on, he passed by a blacksmith with its forge in full operation. A large nord sat at the grind stone, steel sword in hand, pressing the blade down on the grind stone he sped to action through movement of his foot on a pedal. A group had gathered despite the dying light of the day, some merely standing by for warmth, others eager to watch the master at work, other to haggle the blacksmith’s apprentice for weapons and armor. Regardless of his invisibility, he could still feel the heat coming from the forge as he passed by into the market place.

The marketplace was extensive and probably one of the largest that Hanzo had ever seen, with only Solitude coming to mind as one larger. Perhaps the wooden stalls that were crammed tight together weren’t the prettiest he had seen in Skyrim, but that mattered little when someone could do all their shopping in one place. A vendor could be selling sweet rolls and mammoth tusk between a stall selling armor and another selling potions to treat every ailment. There was certainly no lack of treasures to be found. The air had an interesting smell—the brackish water of the canal mixed with the autumn scent of the trees which dotted the city, and on top of all this there was the concoctions sold by the alchemist, the sweet rolls and breads sold by a chef, and the stink of the animals pulling carts into market. And the noise! There were so many people talking all at once it was amazing anyone could actually keep track of their own conversations, let alone eavesdrop on another. All the commotion and energy all in one area made Hanzo leery, but he pressed on, eager to complete his contract and head back west.

 As Hanzo kept on the outskirts, dodging people who had no idea he was there, he searched the faces for a khajiit. Drori was described as average height, with black fur, marked with flecks of white up his nose and chin, orange eyes like molten metal, and long whiskers. But as he looked around, all he could see were different races of men, sprinkled in with a handful of argonian. Perhaps khajiit were not so drawn to Riften as other places in the Skyrim province. The bosmer kept out of the main foot traffic, instead pressing himself up close to the short stone wall that boxed in the vendors’ stalls, his golden eyes scanning the faces. This would be a problem if he could not easily locate this man. Intelligence from his contractor had said he was always at his stall until the market closed, and yet there was no sign of a khajiit.

Just as Hanzo was beginning to worry about false information, there from the way of the docks came a figure, dressed in a long gray tunic and black slacks. Golden hoops pierced through his ears, bangles glittered up nearly to his elbows, and each finger had a knuckle buster of a ring on it. The khajiit—who fit the description of Drori—hustled across the crowded market over to an empty stall. Hanzo watched him take his spot behind the counter, and, after fumbling with a locked door at the bottom of his kiosk, pulled out two small chests, both lined with rings, necklaces, and loose gems. For a man who was merely a merchant, Hanzo couldn’t help but note the wealth he surrounded himself with; even the multiple braids coming down from the top of his head was laced with wires and loops of silver. 

 _The wealth of a skooma dealer¸_ Hanzo reasoned. Not too many common folk had wealth in this era. Of course the royals had their jewels, and those from long lines of wealthy family had their adornments. But for someone of low blood to have so much wealth on their person, one would have to wonder what kind of money gold ran through their hands. Certainly not clean money.

The bosmer backed away from the market stalls, still unseen, and crept up next to the blacksmithy. He carefully leveraged the toes on his one foot into a small gap between the stone façade and in a few quick movement scurried up the side of the building and onto the roof. The tiles and thatch was hot from the constant rays of the sun, but Hanzo ignored it the best he could. He took up a position where he could clearly see all the stalls, and had a view of Drori. From his back he pulled his beloved bow, an heirloom passed down through his ancient family, carved from only the best wood, inlaid with a conjuring enchantment. He wouldn’t need the soul gems that were woven into the bow for this task, but he could feel their energy twisting through the wood and metal. He strung his bow and soon he was pulling a sharp arrow from the quiver. With the sun lowering, deep shadows crept across the market, and some of the taller buildings got the sun out of the archer’s eyes so he could line up the shot easier. As Hanzo notched his arrow and pointed down range towards his target, he watched Drori’s stall neighbor turn to greet him and Drori nervously reply, orange eyes flicking around. Had he seen Hanzo? No, impossible with the ring still tight around his finger. But the khajiit looked worried, and his nose was sniffing the air.

_He smells death._

The master assassin wasted no more time; he needed to get the job done since Drori was obviously spooked. A quick murmur—a prayer to Sithis—passed through his lips as he steeled himself for the task at hand. He took careful aim, and with steady breath and steady hand, he let loose his arrow. It sailed through the air with only the slightest whistle before hitting its mark—Drori’s neck. Hanzo couldn’t hear it over the din of the market, but he could imagine the noise of the arrow head piercing flesh and fur, and the sudden inhale of startled breath, just as Hanzo had experienced with others. Drori’s hand came up to yank at the arrow in a panic, sending a splatter of blood across the stall and the two treasure boxes. The woman who had been looking at his wares let out a screech of alarm as Drori slowly collapsed, which then sent the entire market into a panic. People dropped the items they were looking at in order to flee, although only a few had seen their reason for running. Absolute chaos enveloped the marketplace.

Hanzo replaced his bow onto his back and with measured steps climbed back down to the ground. Through the pandemonium Hanzo walked unseen, dodging people running as he made his way over to where Drori was bleeding out on the ground, still clutching his throat. It was something of a sight; on his way down, the skooma dealer had hit the boxes, spilling the jewelry and gems across the ground, mixing with the blood that was pooling. Glass added to the mess from the skooma bottles Drori had hidden in his tunic. When close enough, Hanzo stooped down. He needed something to affirm his kill for his client. But what?

Meanwhile, the khajiit’s nose twitched hard. “Y-You have come for m-me then, eh, reaper?”

Hanzo slipped off his ring, revealing himself to his quarry. And of course, the moment Drori saw the black and red light armor he knew. Hanzo reached down and plucked a ring off of Drori’s ring finger. It was a beautiful gold ring with a large emerald hooked to it with prongs, and on the sides were designs linked with Drori’s house. This would be his proof of the kill and fetch him a good bit more coin from the man who had lost his son. The khajiit made a weak noise of protest, but the last air wheezed out of him, and his hand flopped back down into the pool of blood. With two fingers Hanzo reached down and pressed them to Drori’s eyes, dragging the lids down gently.

                “Hail Sithis.”

As an afterthought, Hanzo pushed open Drori’s tunic, and pulled what he knew would be there; a small book, bound in weathered leather, detailing on its yellowed, weathered pages names and transactions he had scheduled up to a year in advance. Slowly Hanzo got to his feet, placing the emerald ring in his coin purse that was tied to his belt loop while pulling out his invisibility ring.

Just as he went to slip the ring on and go invisible for his escape of Riften, someone running by collided with him. Hanzo stumbled, nearly falling backwards having not expected it. But an arm caught him around his shoulders, keeping him from hitting the ground. Panic rippled through him momentarily—someone had seen!—but when he looked up he was met with surprised brown eyes, a surprisingly well kept beard, and a mess of brown hair.

                “Sorry darlin’, didn’t see y’ there!”

A Breton man was beaming down at him with a bright and charming smile. He was clad in black leather armor with an equally black cape draped over his shoulder. The man was a good head taller than Hanzo, and bulky with muscle. Hanzo quickly scrambled up, eyes wide---he had been seen. This was…He hadn’t been seen during a kill in many years-since he was a novice!

The man however seemed unaffected by Hanzo’s nervousness, and didn’t seem to notice the body laying just behind the counter. “Y’ alright?” He gave Hanzo the once over, and immediately Hanzo was thinking of drawing his dagger; he couldn’t put the Brotherhood at risk by letting this man—“Best be on your way,” the Breton said. He let go of Hanzo and raced out of the market, leaving the bosmer standing there with his mouth hanging slightly open. He had just…left? It was only when the assassin heard a ruckus of metal and footsteps that he knew the guards were coming to investigate. He slipped his ring on and made his way out of the marketplace.

He fled back down the route he came into Riften through, twisting through the alleyways of the residential area before hopping a fence and squeezing out the front gate of the city on the heels of a nord farmer. On foot he took into the countryside, past the small fields of wheat, and past the Black-Briar Meadery, and into the dense woods the surrounded Riften. The forest looked like an inferno with yellows, oranges, and reds painting the leaves of every tree, and the air had the distinct taste of autumn on its winds. Hanzo waltzed past wolves and bears alike, each bowing their head to the bosmer, allowing him to pass unharmed. Hanzo didn’t stop in his fleeing until he knew he was far enough into the woods that nobody could have easily followed. A large flat rock served as his sitting surface where he finally plopped down. His breath came out in heavy puffs, but he had succeeded. Even if there had been a hiccup at the end.

He was able to thumb through the business ledger Drori had kept on him, but it held nothing of interest; there had been plenty of names, even some people of fame and wealth that were expecting their skooma, but the Dark Brotherhood had no need for this book as they weren’t directly involved with politics. One day they could be assassinating a higher up in the Imperial Army, the next there could be a hit on a Stormcloak. The only allegiances they maintained were to Sithis.

The elf threw the ledger into his quiver for easy holding and went to pull out the ring he had slipped into his coin pouch. However, when his fingers brushed his hip where it should have been, he didn’t feel the leather sack.

                “What the—“

Looking down, he could see a single leather string still hanging there, knotted through a belt loop. But the rest of the coin pouch was missing. And judging by the clean break on the leather bit, he could only guess it had been cut.

                “Who…”

A passing thought of a suave smile passed through his mind.

                “ _The Breton_ ,” he growled angrily. The doe eyed thief had cut his purse from his hip in a fluid motion when he had bumped him. Had he been planning it? How long had that man had Hanzo in his sight? A shiver traveled down his spine as he considered. While Hanzo had been busy hunting his prey, someone had been hunting him. He sat there on the smooth rock in the middle of the woods, and he found himself simmering angrily, with only the slightest hint of amusement in him. That thief had been slick. But if he stole the coin pouch, that meant he also had the ring.

No doubt the thief had disappeared for the night, scared off by the chaos of the death in the market and to lay low for when Hanzo noticed what he had done. But, it was probably a safe bet that a thief in Riften was a part of the infamous Thieves Guild. And, if that was the case, the handsome thief would have to come and go from Riften—headquarters of the guild.

Hanzo was a patient man, and more than that, he was a man who loved to get revenge. However, he had a contract to turn in halfway across Skyrim.  As much as he wanted to make his way back into that city that very night and steal down into the catacombs in which the Thieves Guild is said to make their home, his client was expecting proof of payment.

                “I guess it was a good thing I took the ledger,” he growled to himself. He wasn’t happy. Not by a long shot. Revenge would have to wait. But he _would_ have it. Reluctantly, he got to his feet and made his way away from Riften, back towards Falkreath, his cunning mind already churning over ways to hunt down his prey.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

The cemetery of Riften was not the best taken care of. People had their own lives, and the keepers of the temple of Mara were more concerned with wedding couples and praying to their daedric prince to end the civil war. Sometimes the grass grew too high, too dry, too gnarled together with creeping vines and out of control nightshade, that it hid the tombstones. The nightshade always made a lovely present Jesse to snag on his way inside the secret entrance in the sarcophagus, and he didn’t much mind the solitude; the less people hanging around the graveyard, the easier it was to slip inside. A button on the stone crypt gave easily with a press, and soon the entire lid was sliding back into the wall, revealing a small dark hideaway underneath. The thief whistled a little toon as he ducked down into the darkness. A few feet down and against the wall was an iron chain hanging from the ceiling, with a large loop at one end to make it easy for him to curl his fingers around and—

                “Home sweet home~”

The chain gave a slight jingle when pulled, followed by the grating noise of the lid sliding back into place behind him. Jesse was plunged into darkness, but he could hear the distinct wooden clatter of the next small door flipping open. Light from a torched burned just beyond.

The Ragged Flagon was not easy to get to by those outside the Guild. A series of mazes stemmed from each entrance, with no true markers to guide anyone through to the end; if you were meant to be there, you would know the way. The winding tunnels stretched under Riften as a cold, subterranean labyrinth that hosted an assorted crew of characters, and had claimed a couple lives as well. Traps dotted the floors and walls sporadically, making the already dizzying venture through the Ratway Vaults. But for Jesse who had practically grown up in the Guild, the Cistern was easy enough to find. Using the cemetery entrance saved a lot of time since it was a nearly direct route into the heart of the guild, and it always made Jesse feel warm inside to descend the final ladder and hear the familiar rush of water that was the large Cistern pool, and to smell whatever was being cooked for them.

Vekel was behind the counter of the bar like area, trying to whip up some sort of stew, while Vex, Delvin, Sapphire, and Dirge all sat around a table nearby. Save for a couple sleeping bodies that could be seen in their beds against the walls, the guild seemed rather empty and quiet.

The trio appeared to be counting out a meager amount of coin as Jesse approached. Dirge was a Breton who was rather rough around the edge. Like a true member of the guild he was always hustling for money, and he had been in the business for years. Vex, like-wise, was an Imperial obsessed with coin, and part of her duties were to see that the rest of the guilds kept to their heist contracts. Sapphire was a pretty thing, lethal but cheerful, who always put McCree in good spirits. Like him, Sapphire had a rather rough history, from her parents being murdered, to being used and abused by bandits, to even dabbling with the Dark Brotherhood. Dirge however was much a mystery. The Imperial said little, but he kept things running smoothly.

                “Well, well,” Delvin said upon seeing the younger man approach, “looked what the cat dragged in.”

Vex looked unimpressed and continued counting her coins, but at least Sapphire offered him a smile. “Welcome home McCree.”

Jesse beamed at her. From behind his back he whipped out three nightshade flowers and offered them to the pretty nord who of course turned pink and accepted them despite a ‘tsk’ from Vex. “Mighty happy t’ be back,” he replied.

Delvin tapped the table, making the gold coins all give a metallic jingle as they resettled. There was easily a thousand pieces on the table—which wasn’t a lot all things considered. The Guild was worse for wear these days, with heists going sour, and the gold flow drying up. “I hope you have a present for the rest of us,” he said in his raspy, accented voice.

It wasn’t much, but Jesse produced a pouch stuffed to the brim with small rubies that glittered like droplets of blood. Greedy hands immediately spilled the gems out onto the table and Delvin began sorting them by quality, coloring and the like.

                “Not bad huh?” McCree asked as he pulled up a chair. He turned it around so the back of the chair was butted up against the table, and he was able to rest his arms across it.

Sapphire picked up a smaller ruby and studied it. “Would be much prettier if it was blue.”

Delvin snatched the ruby back and put it back in the correct pile. “Well, you got about 3000 gold worth here,” he said. “Not bad but…”

                “Oh, and then…” From his bag he produced a golden locket on a thin chain. The lid of the locket was engraved with swirls and knots that created the image of a dragon in a circle. At the dragon’s core was a flawless blue sapphire. “My own beauty~”

Even Vex’s eyes glittered as the group eyed it up. The necklace probably was worth 5000 gold at least.

                “My, my,” Delvin all but purred, “where did you find that beauty?”

McCree swelled with pride. “A pretty little nord girl up in Winterhold had it on her dresser when I snuck in.” He looped the chain around his neck and toyed with the locket. The dim light of the tavern area bounced off the gem, creating dancing blue shapes on the table.

Sapphire reached out to tap the gem at its center. “You might want to keep that close…or you’ll find it missing,” she teased.

Jesse loved it in the Thieves Guild. Sure, they weren’t doing so well in recent years, but it sure beat the backwater farm he came from. Dad had skipped out as part of a bandit gang, mother could barely pay the bills. He had begun working young just so he could eat most days, and it had been one miserable day after another until he had tried to swipe a man’s coin purse one day. He didn’t do it often—or at least that’s what he told his mother—but he did it enough to develop a pretty solid cut and swipe technique. Even as an adult he could remember the day he snuck up on a handsome red haired man in town and using the little dagger in his hand had quickly cut the straps to the little orange-ish leather pouch that was dangling enticingly from the man’s waist. He had grabbed the pouch and darted like a viper into the crowd, weaving through the marketplace then down alleyway after alley before finally stopping to catch his breath. Opening the pouch had been a shocker. Rocks. Several small stones spilled out onto the ground at his feet. Not a septim to be seen.

                ‘ _You have quick hands, lad.’_

Bryjolf had been kind and extended a hand to the boy along with an offer to join his friends in the Ratway half a world away. By then Jesse’s mother had died, leaving him an orphan in his childhood house. With nothing to pack of value, Jesse had left that night with the thief, never looking back. Since then he had gained more wealth than he ever thought possible for him, seen Skyrim from one side to the other, and gained a tight knit family. Sometimes he thought about visiting that ramshackled farm house, but after being gone from it for over two decades, he knew the condition of the house would be terrible; it was better to remember it how he knew it as a child.

After sharing a mug of mead with the others and a bowl of stew, the coins got counted and sent off with Delvin to hand off to Bryjolf to get shoved in the vault. Jesse said his goodnights and wandered off to bed. He had just come home from being up north in Winterhold, and after days and days of walking and trying to hitchhike on wagons, the man was exhausted. He found his bed off along the walls by the others, and flopped down onto it. He shucked off his boots and socks, pouches, and leather armor and tossed them into the wooden crate at the end of the bed. His beloved daggers stayed up on the nightstand by his head just in case he needed them. With the water so close and the Ratway being underground, he kept on the tight black undershirt he wore beneath his armor, and his long black pants, and crawled under the wolf pelt covers. It took a minute of tossing and turning to find the body dent he had made in the straw mattress, but soon he was truly home sweet home. Without a worry in the world he shoved and arm up under his pillow and drifted off to sweet dreams.

* * *

It was the wee hours of the morning when he awoke again. With eyelids fluttering open, he could see moonlight still spilling in over the pool several feet away, signaling it was far too early for him to be awake again, especially given how tired he had felt earlier. It was after he noticed the moonlight that he noticed a pair of golden eyes staring down at him. Immediately his hand shot out, groping for the daggers at his bedside, only for his hand to be held down in a vice like grip. A knee was being shoved against his chest while the other knee pinned his other arm by his side. Long dark hair spilled over his assailant’s shoulder’s reaching down to tickle Jesse’s nose. He could just barely make down the silhouette of elf ears again the backdrop of moonlight. So close the mystery person smelled of copper and pine.

                “I should cut your throat,” came a dark growl. Jesse became immediately aware that the person atop him was not only male, but had a free hand that was pressing down a dagger against his neck. When the thief gulped his Adam’s apple bobbed against the metal blade.

Jesse kept his voice low. “I would scream before—“

The blade applied more pressure, cutting him off. “As if I would allow that.” His words were slightly accented, giving Jesse the impression he probably hadn’t been born in Skyrim.

Jesse squinted through the dark. The moonlight illuminated the black and red leather of his light armor, the glint of potion vials on his belt next to another blade, and of the golden hue of his eyes. The thief blinked dumbly up at his assailant. Despite the anger radiating from him, the elf was eerily familiar, right down to the crease of a frown line near his mouth. The man glared down at Jesse and applied more pressure, drawing a droplet of blood from Jesse’s skin. Jesse hissed. “Why t’ hell are y’ here?”

No answer was given at first. His eyes crept down Jesse’s face, trailing down his neck. For a moment Jesse could feel himself heat up under the bosmer’s intense gaze, until he felt finger graze the chain around his neck. The question went unanswered. Slowly the pendant was eased up over Jesse’s head. He turned it over in his hand, studying it with a furrowed brow. A thumb traced the dragon as though it were a familiar thing.

                “Hey now! I stole that fair an’ square—“

                “Silence. You stole from me, and I shall steal from you,” the intruder hissed dangerously. “We are even. You are lucky your blood was not spilled across this bed.”

The elf pulled back, eyes still glaring down into Jesse’s brown ones, watching for the slightest movement. As the weight left the bed, Jesse caught a glimpse of the hand mark on the front of the man’s armor. Dark Brotherhood. But the elf’s words confused him. Had he stolen from him before? He made it a point to avoid those that worship Sithis—they were the deadliest bunch in all of Skyrim and unlike the guild who avoided killing, those with the painted hand were sneaky _to_ kill. Instead of scrambling for his dagger, he watched the elf step away, eyes still locked on him.

It was just as the man was turning to flee into the darkness, that Jesse realized who he was. That long black hair, those hawkish eyes…it was the bosmer from the marketplace! Jesse had swiped an expensive ring from him a day not long ago and had sold it for a good amount of septims. To think…that elf had waited weeks and found a way to hunt him down…all to get even.

Jesse knew the man had slipped out of the base when he heard the ladder on the far side of the room creak. He could have alerted his guild-mates and given chase, but where was the fun in that? Instead he gave a chuckle and reached up to run his hand up his neck.

                “Wow…what a guy…beautiful _and_ lethal,” Jesse chuckled. When he pulled his hand away there was a couple drops of blood smeared across his fingers, but nothing lift threatening. If the elf had been serious, Jesse would have been found in the morning with his throat wide open. And yet, there he was, staring up at the ceiling, running over the elf’s words to him. He could still smell pine lingering near his bed. Somehow the assassin had managed to find out he where he was based, and get into the guild unseen. Jesse couldn’t help but feel a little impressed. “I think I’m in love.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
